


Personal Space

by ProseApothecary



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and angst and OOC puns, Gen, M/M, can be read as pre-slash or friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 19:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21086474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: “How are they supposed to know?” Aziraphale says, pitch rising, “if even we can’t tell which of us is responsible for what? It’s like we send them into an obstacle course blindfolded and ask them to come out without a scratch.”Aziraphale blinks and pushes his wine glass away a little sheepishly. “Is what I would say. If I didn’t have faith in the Almighty’s ineffable plan.”“Almighty then,” says Crowley. It’s definitely the most shameful thing he’s ever done, above inventing cheese-in-a-can and far above everything with the apple, but it does, at least, make Aziraphale smile.





	Personal Space

Aziraphale turns up the volume on his crackly TV as man takes his very first steps on the Moon.

“One of yours?” Crowley asks.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. Upstairs isn’t big on space travel. Makes the heavens rather more…effable. Besides which, I don’t think She’s too keen on the name. No other gods before me, and all of that.”

He looks to Crowley. “…Wasn’t one of yours, was it?”

“Wait till you get to the meteor shower.”

“You wouldn’t,” says Aziraphale matter-of-factly.

“Would too.”

He doesn’t.

He _does_ consider warning Aziraphale that the last person who implied he couldn’t do something walked out of the barber’s with a horrendous haircut the next day; but it doesn’t seem quite as threatening as he’d hoped.

Besides, Aziraphale is distracted by the images onscreen, and looking _quite_ delighted.

Rather silly, really, for someone who can pop up to the moon whenever he feels like it, but he’s always been irrationally proud of people.

The day the Challenger crashes, Aziraphale turns up at his door. He’s holding an umbrella, but still looking rather sodden. And rather sad.

“Honestly, Angel,” Crowley says. “It wasn’t me.”

Aziraphale huffs. “I know _that._ But- your side?”

“I’ll ask around,” Crowley promises.

“I’m afraid-I’m afraid it might be my side. Correcting human hubris and all of that nonsense.”

“Or,” Crowley says gently, “could be _their_ side.”

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. “I suppose it could be.”

“Come in,” says Crowley, and heads to the liquor cabinet.

It’s not long before they’re on their third glasses.

“How are they supposed to know?” Aziraphale says, pitch rising, “if even we can’t tell which of us is responsible for what? It’s like we send them into an obstacle course blindfolded and ask them to come out without a scratch.”

Aziraphale blinks and pushes his wine glass away a little sheepishly. “Is what I would say. If I didn’t have faith in the Almighty’s ineffable plan.”

“Almighty then,” says Crowley. It’s definitely the most shameful thing he’s ever done, above inventing cheese-in-a-can and far above everything with the apple, but it does, at least, make Aziraphale smile.

“Maybe you should change sides,” says Crowley, “I can put in a good word. Well, a bad word.”

“I’d rather not be on the team setting up the obstacles, thank you.”

“If you’re going to end up in the dirt anyway, you may as well roll around in it.”

“That’s…_one_ way of looking at it.”

“Right. So, first we say you seduced a whole platoon of nuns-”

A smile flickers across Aziraphale’s face. “Perhaps we could go for something a _little_ more realistic.”

“Not many monasteries these days. Maybe you could go for another one of the big seven. Like gluttony,” he says as Aziraphale reaches for the cookie plate.

Aziraphale frowns and holds the platter towards Crowley, as if that was his plan all along. Crowley can’t help but smile as he shakes his head.

“Wouldn’t want to waste it,” Aziraphale says as he takes the last cookie. He sighs as he finishes and puts the platter back down. “I should probably get going.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale stand in the doorway, shrugging his coat on and grabbing his umbrella.

He looks happier than he did when he came in, certainly, but there’s still a defeated quality to him. Crowley’s not about to take the bait, to blindly reassure him that the angels can do no wrong, when they both know that’s not true. When that would push Aziraphale even further away from the idea of a side of their own. But. Maybe a compromise?

He does look very pallid.

“A flaming sword probably helps.”

Aziraphale looks at him. “I…what?”

“Blindfolded, in an obstacle course.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows as he registers what Crowley is saying. “You truly are-”

“Don’t,” Crowley growls. “Or I’ll make sure double denim stays in fashion for the next century.”

“Right. Then I suppose I’ll leave it at ‘thank you’”.

Aziraphale gives him a final smile as he leaves.

Crowley watches him walk down the grey street, stopping a rain-soaked mother and child to offer them his umbrella.

And feels sure that he’s going to be ok.


End file.
